The Art of Negotiation
by SkyKissed
Summary: There's a visible difference in the countenance of the Sixer's captives. One seems shaken. Wash...she's just pissed. Another look at the aftermath of the Runaway, focused on our favorite Commander and his second.


I should not be writing fanfiction so close to a series start up, I should _not_ be writing fanfiction so close to a series start up...

But I can't help it. So here's this little number, crappy title and all. I swear to you, on Jim Shannon's glorious muscles, my next Taylor/Wash offering will be more glorious, having had time to stew in the characters psyche longer. Until then...have this. :D

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Terra Nova or its character. If I did, you better believe Josh and crew would be getting time cuts to make room for Taylor and his badass ways. Also, T-Rexs would be used as prehistoric horses. Just because.

* * *

><p><strong>The Art of Negotiation <strong>

Terra Nova, thanks to its tropical climate, had one predominate weather pattern. It was hot. Occasionally humid, sometimes muggy, but always hot. Usually, it wasn't a problem as years as a soldier had rendered Taylor hugely adaptable to various climates. Hell, after being stranded in the twenty-second century for most of his life the feel of the sunlight on his shoulders was a welcome change. A physical reminder of the second chance they'd all been given.

Standing out in said sunlight, arguing with Mira and her crew over the fate of two of his soldiers, his _lieutenant_, he momentarily forgot his appreciation for it. Suddenly it was just hot, a nuisance visibly reflected in the sweat dripping off Wash and the private.

Inwardly, he sighed, meeting the eyes of his lieutenant briefly before returning to his negotiations. Mira remained smug, proud, indicating his people as though their current condition should worry him. He wondered if she really even looked at them. They certainly didn't seem overly concerned; he certainly wasn't.

It took a few words for Mira to hand over her hostages, her willingness to treat nearly comical and at once suspicious. Her terms were surprisingly simple: a chance to speak with the runaway for his people. It was more a placation than a negotiation, any power she might have had stripped away. She's outgunned and outnumbered and in no place to give orders. If he agreed, it's because it's the simplest course, not because he has to, and therein lays the difference between them. As Shannon went to fetch the girl, the Commander took a brief moment to look over his newly returned soldiers.

There was a visible difference in the demeanor of the Sixer's two hostages. The young private (his name escaped Taylor at the moment), once freed, looked instantly relieved, the lingering traces of fear showing beneath what remained of his veneer of calm. They'd shaken him up pretty badly, a bit of the blood from his forehead dripping in his eye. If it had continued, if they'd been allowed to keep beating him, he might have broken. When his peers offered him a hand, patted his shoulder, he accepted it. He breathed a visible sigh of relief, and remained silent.

His second, on the other hand, made no such pretense. The moment the Sixers freed her hands, Wash jerked them away from her captors, not at all cowed or frightened by their sneering faces. For a moment, it appeared she might have another go at them.

There was nothing in his lieutenant's posture save irritation, even as she silently fumed behind him as he finished with Mira. She paced a bit, not so unlike the predators of the wilderness beyond their gates, absently batting away the hands of the privates reaching out to her, their obvious concern only fueling her frustration. Fussing over her was perhaps the worst possible choice they could make. Fussing only reminded her she gotten herself caught, captured and drug before her superior officer like some god damn damsel in distress. Fussing reminded her that she failed on what ought to have been a routine task because she wasn't paying enough attention.

So Wash paced and she fumed, and he couldn't help the fact that a grin twisted his features. Hands were placed resolutely on hips, the heat of her glare more potent than the primeval sun as it fixed upon the fleeing Sixers. Wishing, daring, _hoping_, they'd be stupid enough to return to Terra's gates. Bruised and bloodied, she was ready for round two. Hell if she hadn't sleep in forty-eight hours, she wanted a rematch.

A quick glance in her direction assuaged any concern he might have had for her health. She was more embarrassed than injured, despite the blossoming bruise on her forehead and jaw. There were bags under her eyes and the skin on her wrists looked raw from the leather straps but he'd seen her endure much worse and react in precisely the same manner.

Wash had what some would call a limited spectrum of emotional responses. The statement was usually spoken by overly concerned doctors and privates or those that simply didn't know her well enough. Tense situations like the gate, embarrassment, fear, pain, all tended to illicit similar responses: anger, frustration and more anger. And, occasionally, _more_ anger. Not terribly healthy, but it kept her going and, depending on the genesis of her frustration, he was _usually_ able to talk her down.

But damn, if she wasn't pissed right now.

"Commander Taylor," he turned in time to catch Elizabeth Shannon dragging his obstinate second towards him, the smaller woman clutching the soldier's arm with steely determination, "Would you please inform the lieutenant she must be admitted to the clinic for a checkup?"

Wash's jaw set, her head held high. She didn't need an exam, it said. She didn't need doctors poking at her, or telling her the extent of the damage she'd taken. She'd had worse. What she _needed_ was a drink, a strong one.

He met her dark eyes, and nodded, "I dare say the lieutenant knows what's expected of her." The doc sighed, shifting from foot to foot, watching him expectantly. So he nodded, "Get yourself checked out, Wash. Doctors orders."

It was almost comical, the way her eyes widened. It's the only visible sign of her displeasure with his decision. He flashed a little smirk, patting her shoulder, moving off to deal with Jim and their little runaway. He'd visit her in a few hours, undoubtedly.

Until then, it couldn't hurt to let her fume for a bit.

* * *

><p>One of the first things they'd learned about each other, so many years ago, was how to deal with the others foul moods.<p>

Wash knew that when he was angry, the best things she could do was bring him a drink. Depending on his mood, they'd talk, sometimes about Terra Nova, sometimes about past battles (future battles, really); sometimes they'd just drink.

In return, he knew that when she was angry, the best things he could do was give her enough space to figure out her own problems or offer her a method of venting. Sometimes he'd offer to spar, sometimes to take her out for some target practice. The method usually depended on precisely what had stoked her temper. What he'd found was never well received was pity.

Avoiding her would seem like pity.

Evening settled on Terra Nova, the temperature finally falling enough to be comfortable. It was never really _cold_ in the settlement but it might be uncomfortable without a light jacket. Above him, the moon, large, alien and beautiful, was beginning to show, the thousands of stars following in its wake. After spending decades beneath a smoggy cloud, the natural beauty of the night sky never ceased to amaze him. A decade in and it had yet to lose its novelty.

It's the sort of thing he couldn't help but reflect on as he headed towards her house. Only an hour after entrusting her to the Doctor, Shannon had called him, assuring him his LT was in good health, though still surly. His dismissing her likely hadn't helped matters.

So here he was, a bottle of scotch tucked under his arm, knocking on Wash's door. A peace offering if ever there was one. If learning to live with each other's mood had been the first thing they'd learned about one another, then that had been the second thing. He was a whiskey man, where she preferred scotch. Both had bottles of the others favorites stowed away for special occasions or the occasional visit. Or bribery, as it was.

For a moment there was silence on the other end of the door, a brief brush of the fabric of her fatigues, almost as if she was considering even answering the door. The moment of indecision must have passed, for the familiar sound of her combat boots, still on, even in the confines of her home, against the floor reached his ears. She opened the door only to stand there, staring at him, arms crossed, a brow arched in question.

Mira really had done a number on her. Having had a few more hours to set in, the bruise on her forehead had turned a lovely shade of purple-black, her jaw finally setting for a mottled yellow. Coupled with her posture, they certainly leant her a severity he wasn't used to having turned on himself.

"You got something on your lip, Wash," he offered, settling on a lightly teasing tone, the smooth tenor of his voice aiming to set her at ease.

The woman rolled her eyes, swiping at the offending cut irritably. She motioned him inside wordlessly. Admittedly, despite her better efforts, she did soften a bit when he handed her the scotch. It was expensive, and her favorite; one he usually reserved for either the anniversary of the colony, or one of their key battles. More than that, they had a standing agreement to never fight when they drank. She pursed her lips, taking it from his hand, accepting the symbolic olive branch. With a quick toss of her head she indicated the table, disappearing momentarily to fetch a pair of glasses for them.

When she returned, in addition to the glasses, there was a second bottle under her arm, a smooth Canadian whiskey he'd mentioned he preferred early on in their relationship. A gesture to prove her frustration was not with him but herself. She set the glasses in front of them, pouring them both liberal drinks.

The amber liquid burned pleasantly in his throat as he sipped it, conjuring up images of the past. Times not better but different, of nights spent in similar situations with her. Neither were overly fond of drinking alone, and this was a position they'd often found themselves in. He swirled the remains of his drink, watching it bead around the rim, before fixing her with a stare, "How you holding up, Wash?"

There was nothing resembling pity in the question. It was simple curiosity, and she could handle that.

"Nothing hurt but my pride, Commander," She downed the rest of her drink. He rolled his eyes, scooting the bottle away from her as if the express his displeasure. The woman offered a nearly, but not quite, apologetic smile. Scotch was meant to be sipped, savored, not downed in one gulp. Not to mention it was expensive and had to last them between pilgrimages. She held up her hands for peace. When he remained silent, his stare unwavering and fixed directly on her, she sighed. It was a heavy thing, the particular sort that said she'd surrendered. She'd talk to him. In truth, he wasn't worried about her injuries. She was a big girl and could handle herself. Still, he remained silent, stoic as she listed them off for him, as though it was for his benefit and not her own, "Bruises to the rib cage, a sprained ankle. My wrists hurt like hell, but it's nothing that won't heal."

"Good to hear."

More silence. She fingered the rim of her glass absently, listening to the dull hum of the crystal as her callused fingers passed over the delicate material. After a moment her features twisted in something resembling a scowl, bringing one of her hands down on the edge of the table, "They jumped me while I was picking up the kids bag. Four of them. That's the only damn reason they got me."

He watched her fume, "They got you. They roughed you up a bit. And how do they look?"

She paused for a moment, sipping her drink, before a positively wicked smirk curved her lips, "Much worse."

"Then they had numbers and the benefit of surprise and you still came out on top, nothing to be ashamed of there."

"Guess I'm just not a graceful loser, then." No, she wasn't.

At that he chuckled. She shifted irritably in her seat, her arms still crossed over her chest. His words had appeased her a bit, but defeat never sat well with Wash. As far as she was concerned, only certain people were allowed to get the best of her. Taylor was one of them. Mira was not. Her underlings were most certainly not.

"You just haven't had enough practice." He held up his glass in mock salute, "Here's to hoping you never will."

For a long moment, silence dominated their conversation. Somewhere outside the gates, something howled. Wash poured him another drink before tending to her own glass, staring at nothing in particular. When she did focus on him again the anger was gone, replaced by something dangerously akin to mischief flickering near the corner of her eyes. He'd pacified her, and she was done licking her wounds, "So…war with the Sixers?"

"Somehow I knew you'd like that." He snatched the bottle of whiskey from her and poured himself another drink, a real drink. She snickered a bit and shrugged, as if he can't blame her for wanting some good old fashioned payback. He doesn't.

"You think Mira will come back?"

He paused, thinking for a second. If he was being truthful, he didn't really know. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't. If she did it wouldn't be any time soon. She's smug and stubborn to a fault but she wouldn't risk the entirety of her people on a full out assault on the gate. She'd wait, most likely, for a break in their defenses or word from her mole. Instead, he says, "Eventually."

Wash nodded, knowing what he really meant. One of the benefits of knowing someone so long.

"We'll be ready for her when she does."

It's a simple statement, reassuring and a little cliché. She held up her glass in salute, accepting the reassurance he offered. There was very little use in dwelling on such things, so instead they talk about Terra Nova, the Shannon's; past battles that won't happen for thousands of years if they happen at all. The same things they've always talked about and will for years to come.

When he went to leave, he paused, clasping her shoulder in friendly camaraderie. Without thought, she returned the motion, flashing him a smile so open it's almost out of character for the guarded woman.

"I'll see you for patrol in the morning, lieutenant."

She didn't fight him, nodding contently. When she does, the smile still curving her split lip, he's reassured his lieutenants back to her old self, confident, loyal. With one more pat on the shoulder, he dismissed himself.


End file.
